John's Gamble
by Kelouisa
Summary: John Watson is desperately trying to gather money to pay a blackmailer. Sherlock Holmes makes an indecorous offer to Doctor Watson at just the right time. What starts out as sating his lust may turn out to be the making of the man.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N **Basically just an excuse for Johnlock smut because it was taking so long for John and Sherlock to get together in one of my other stories. :)

So, originally I wasn't intending on beginning to post this until it was complete, since I'm already dragging behind on The Lazarus Machine. However, I think that beginning to post it will inspire me to work harder on it as well.

The time and place is still Regency England, much like The Lazarus Machine. However, in this iteration, the laws in place regarding homosexuality are more historically accurate. I don't go beyond mentioning this as I didn't intend for this to be a serious piece. I also thought it was interesting that I came across a tidbit about some of the period gay hangouts were called Molly houses, (which just now makes me wonder, Moffatiss, if you knew that and it's one more damn joke) and that the whole gay-slang-"Mary" thing is at least that old.

I also must dedicate the plot of this story to the nutjob who bitched about the Sherlock Holmes movie "The Master Blackmailer" on Netflix. Thank you. :) It made me watch it and without that, I would not have gotten as far in this story without a plot to follow, and the flick takes some interesting liberties with the original story of Charles Augustus Milverton.

**First Sight**

The first time Sherlock Holmes saw Dr. John Watson was at Gentleman Jackson's Boxing Saloon on Bond Street. He was bared to the waist, displaying a reddened starburst scar on his left shoulder, muscled back slick with sweat. Sherlock could anticipate each punch by the way the muscles of his back would tense beneath the skin, and he was inordinately appreciative of the way his torso would twist and stretch upon delivery. The reciprocal blows were received with a guttural grunt that entered through Sherlock's ears but seemed to sink directly into his gut and clench his insides. Riveting. Sherlock's attention was more than captured.

Despite what had to be a painful assault on his shoulder, his sparring opponent displayed more signs of exhaustion and injury than Watson did. Skill, stamina, willpower… War, Sherlock decided, not a career in pugilism. Lucky to have survived the wound on his shoulder. The spread of scarring indicated infection, fever. Building his strength at Gentleman Jackson's, not his first time here. At least three visits in the last two weeks alone, given the bruising patterns and fading.

Shirtless, showing off his scar. Opponents thought it a weakness, focused on it. However, likely nerve damage, Sherlock decided, made it a decoy. A forceful fist hit but Watson rolled his shoulder with it and followed with a right so suddenly that his opponent was surprised right to the floor. Victory.

The fighter, John Watson, walked past Sherlock, favoring him with a smile, perhaps because Sherlock schooled his face to look most dour much of the time, or he was just a friendly sort, or even that he was simply exhilarated from his triumph. Or was he interested? Sherlock couldn't help but turn to watch him walk away. Now that he wasn't navigating the fighting ring, his step showed a bit of stiffness. A leg injury as well, perhaps? Sherlock's curiosity was diverted by the most attractive buckle cinching the back of his breeches, drawing attention to the line of the man's torso flaring to a firm arse and thighs.

Gentleman Jackson's was not a place Sherlock hunted for conquests. Too public, too full of men he may run into again, too dangerous. Still, the man's name wasn't difficult to ascertain through overheard conversation and Sherlock locked away the knowledge in a new room that was swiftly filling up with tiny details: Watson's hair was fading from dark blond to gray though he was only in his thirties; the business of soldiering had tanned lines around his eyes and roughened his skin; and the business of being wounded and subsequently ill had made his frame more lean than it had been.

Sherlock turned away, next in the exhibition ring, more than ready to have the lust beaten out of his traitorous body.

The next time Sherlock saw Dr. John Watson, he was properly buttoned and laced into tight, fashionable clothes, every inch the starched, upright gentleman. If the colors were a bit plain and not the vivid jewel tones Sherlock preferred for himself, well, that was simply an example of his respectability. Sherlock found that somehow even more enticing, the idea of seducing an exemplary member of society. But he would also have to be much more circumspect in his approach.

Watson took a seat at a hazard table in the Diogenes Club, a luxurious gambling hell owned and operated by one Mycroft Holmes. Sherlock, Mycroft's brother, was employed to keep the tables honest, relatively, and took his cut of the house rather than the amounts he won at the tables. He preferred games of skill rather than chance, though his keen mind could calculate the odds in the latter with startling accuracy. Fortune did not interest him, however. The challenge of the game was enough.

The room was comfortably full; the doorman made sure that the tables were kept exclusive enough to attract discriminating players, but never let the place get that desperate, deserted feeling even in the small hours. And when Sherlock had mentioned a certain name, just in passing, the gentleman in question had been welcomed into the club, much to his surprise.

Sherlock prowled around, observing the players and seating himself at any table but John Watson's. The man had not noticed Sherlock watching him, paying avid attention to the other players and each roll of the dice. He was a serious player, then. And he won, Sherlock was interested to note. Watson was a cautious player, generally, but when he truly made a leap of faith, he was rewarded. He played as if he could not afford to lose.

John Watson continued to display the combination of skill and luck as he habitually attended the hell over the next week. Despite his steadily taking money from the other players, the gentlemen welcomed the young man to their tables. Perhaps he regaled them with war stories or other amusements, or was simply pleasant company. Sherlock overheard mere snippets when he was positioned at a nearby table and the raucous din of men at their entertainment momentarily lulled.

Sherlock continued to discreetly observe the man, careful that Watson remained oblivious. He wasn't a man Sherlock could proposition with a flick of his eyes towards an unoccupied room. Still, at one point Sherlock was distracted from his card game long enough for one of the others at the table to draw his attention with a casual clearing of a throat. Sherlock returned to his game until his first opportunity to excuse himself and then adjourned to his brother's office.


	2. Chapter 2

**The Offer**

Doctor John Watson had been coming to this particular gambling hell every night for a week. He wasn't certain how a retired army doctor warranted entry to the exclusive building, but the steward had taken his name and bowed as he walked through the door. The establishment was renowned for its lack of tolerance for cheats, which made it an attractive spot for those who loved the purity of a wager. And it had proven lucky for John. If his luck had held out, he'd have had enough of a stake to join the deeper games, the ones whose payouts would ease his financial troubles.

If it hadn't been for that last stupid, impulsive wager based on a giddy rush of adrenaline and that calamitous throw of the dice, John would be at one of those fine tables right now. Instead, he sat white-faced in the office of the proprietor, hoping to beg some credit, any small amount that he might turn into a healthy bank again. John was nearly desperate enough to go to a moneylender, though that would only exacerbate his problems, delay the inevitable.

The door opened behind John and he rose up, leaning on his cane. The gentleman who entered the room was not Mr. Mycroft Holmes, the owner of the hell. John had only seen him once, moving deliberately to one of the tables and calmly directing the removal of one Lord Ashforth, who had apparently switched out the hazard dice for ones more favorable. Mr. Holmes had been soft-spoken yet commanding. With the slightest of movements, he'd had two burly bouncers escort Ashforth through the front door, but made it clear that _he_ was the real threat, not the former prize-fighters.

No, that tall, auburn-haired gentleman was not the man who walked through the door. The man who sauntered in, bowed very slightly to John, and stood behind the great, intricately-carved desk was raven-haired with eyes sharp as a stiletto. In fact, nearly everything about the man was sharp: his clothing was arranged in crisp, definitive lines; his cheekbones were marble honed to a fine edge; his fingers resting lightly on the blotter were long and thin. Only his dark curls were round and soft, though John imagined there was tension even in those coils, resilient as springs.

John flicked his eyes downward, away, remembering belatedly that he really ought to breathe. To live, you know. He retook his seat rather heavily at the imperious invitation, trying to avert his eyes from the rather striking man in front of him. It wouldn't do to have _thoughts_ about this man. He could, and would, control himself.

"Doctor John Watson. You wished to see the owner of the Diogenes Club about extending credit." It was quite clearly not a question.

"Y-yes." John cleared his throat.

"You wagered very foolishly for a man who could lose everything."

"Yes, I did." John sat up straighter and met the pale, keen eye of the man across the mahogany. It wouldn't do to deny it.

"You were winning a great deal of money, in a very methodical fashion. Yet you abandoned your caution on a single throw of the dice. Why?"

John opened his mouth, though he wasn't quite sure what he was going to say.

"Quiet. That was not a question for you." The man's fingers steepled in front of lips that God Himself must have carved quite deliberately. He was silent for a few minutes, moving only his eyes over John's person. John felt those eyes, those flinty gray eyes, probing into his every pocket and crevice. He fought the blush that crept to his cheeks, determinedly forcing his mind to clear of everything except his purpose.

Finally, the stranger spoke so rapidly John could only just follow.

"You are a man of reasonable means, recently returned home from the war, where you had quite a reputation as a skilled physician. No doubt many men's lives have been saved due to your dauntless efforts, risking harm to yourself, even, to that end. Your return home had as much to do with your inheriting the family estate due to the death of your father as with your injuries. Unusual that the heir to an estate would be schooled in medicine or would have chosen a military career when he ought to have been learning to run the estate. Either you were a second son unexpectedly elevated to your rank, or your father was a young, vigorous man, perhaps a second son himself, who valued service to one's country, education, or, most unconventionally, thought that even gentlemen ought to have a proper occupation.

"No doubt the inheritance taxes were crippling, but that would not be enough to make you desperate. After quite some years in the army, you'd be used to living simply and the modest estate left to you would be more than adequate for your needs. No, your sudden need for money is for some other reason.

"You are a skilled gambler, doubtlessly honed among other soldiers and gambling establishments throughout Europe. You may owe money to someone who has threatened you to collect, but that doesn't seem quite right. There is a threat here, though. Interesting. The threat doesn't seem to be aimed at you. Oh, protective, a sibling. Trying to put together a proper dowry for a sister, perhaps, or pay the debts of a younger brother still at school?

"Neither of those quite add up to the desperation you're now displaying. Never play a game where you need to bluff, John Watson, for your face clearly shows everything going on in your head. The sister, yes, and a wedding, but not a dowry. Family honor?" Those steepled fingers tapped against those sharply etched lips.

"Oh!" The man leapt up from his seat and started pacing back and forth behind the desk. "Extortion!"

John slumped against his seat, quite astonished.

"Amazing," was the only thought he could force into words.

The eyes turned back to him and the pacing stopped.

"Most people are quite unnerved that I can know all their secrets, especially the ones they try to hide most."

"I would imagine so."

The eyes peered at John so intensely he could feel the weight of it pressing on the shoulders of his soul. He did his soldier-best to not squirm under the scrutiny.

"Fascinating."

The man came around to the front of the desk and leaned up against it. His long legs stretched out perilously close to John's. John shifted his feet minutely, trying to hide it under the pretense of shifting uncomfortably in his seat.

"You came here to make a request. I've been charged to inform you that Mr. Holmes has agreed to forward you credit of one thousand pounds, the amount you lost on your last bet. I also have an alternative arrangement to offer. Both options involve risk and closure to your financial difficulties. My offer, however, will not depend on the further casting of dice, nor favors owed to the notorious Mycroft Holmes."

"I'm listening." John's hand tightened on the handle of his cane. A million possibilities flew through his head. This quite brilliant young man wanted something from him and he was offering the money John needed in return. John would do almost anything short of murder to clear his current situation from his life. And maybe even that, if he could manage to justify it.

"First, let me hear the details of the case. How much does the extorter want?"

John named the figure, a quite debilitating sum. After he did so, he wondered why he was confiding in this stranger, this man both pale and dark. Granted, the man had deduced his very personal concerns after a very few minutes; hiding the truth would likely prove pointless.

"Why would he possibly think you have that much? The sale of your estate could yield that much blunt were it not entailed, but few even of much higher rank keep that amount to hand."

John could only shrug.

"Then it is likely that our miscreant perhaps owes debts elsewhere himself, or realizes you're proud enough to do almost anything to get it. What makes you think that this single payment will be the end of things?"

"I don't. As time passes, though, the scandal will become less harmful and perhaps less believable."

"Once your sister is safely married, the reveal won't matter so much."

"Yes."

"And you can't just kill him, why?"

John almost laughed at the genuine sincerity of the question. "I don't particularly wish to be hanged or transported. I also understand that he has a solicitor with access to the letters, which would be delivered upon an untimely end. But thirdly, the fellow has taken great pains to remain anonymous. I have been given a clear and undeniable threat, but I have no idea from whence it came."

"Well, the man certainly reads enough sensational fiction to make a proper go of this, doesn't he?"

John had to laugh at that, despite the bleak situation.

"Your offer, then."

"You will earn my assistance, Dr. Watson, in my bed."

John's head jerked up in surprise.

"I… I beg your pardon?"

"You heard me, Dr. Watson. Drink? Mycroft keeps the finest Scotch whiskey, but rarely drinks it."

The tall man progressed to a sideboard where he poured out a generous dram of whiskey and added a few drops of water. John took the glass, shivering a bit at the cool brush of the man's fingers along his own.

"You've caught my interest, Dr. Watson. You can refuse, of course, giving any reason at all, whether your honor or your supposed lack of proclivities in that direction. You may even plead a fiancée, though we'd both be aware of the lie. But the truth of the matter is that I desire you and I have the means to offer the solution to your problem in exchange for your tolerance of those desires."

John shot back the whiskey in his hand with a shockingly low appreciation for the fine, peaty aroma.

"What makes you think I won't go to the magistrate with this indecent offer of yours?" John's voice was perhaps not as outraged as it ought to be. "It's madness, what you are suggesting. Illegal." Whether it was the whiskey or something else he cared not to define, heat began seeping through John's veins.

The man circled the room, always moving, never sitting still and every second demanding John's attention. He tugged on the lower edge of his waistcoat, making sure it was properly displayed beneath the cut of his jacket, and John's eyes tore away before they drifted lower. He took the glass from John's hand to refill it, peeking over his shoulder to best display his elegant profile as he slowly returned. When he handed John the glass, he placed a hand on John's good shoulder, squeezed it in the most innocuous manner, but the thrill burst down John's spine and straight into his groin.

"I observed the way your eyes shy away from lingering on my person. Your breathing became quick and shallow when I walked into the room and again when I leaned on the front of the desk and stretched my legs near to you. You've done a fine job of tamping down your reactions, but certain immediate responses to an attractive person are uncontrollable.

"You may play offended, Watson, but both you and I know better. Legalities aside, you are at least one of the following: curious, intrigued, excited, or aroused.

"However, if the thought of a discreet dalliance with a man is too much for your nerves, you make take your credit and build your bank. With your skill at gambling, if your luck holds, you may be able to raise the funds you need. Precisely how long did you say you had left?"

John hadn't. "Three weeks." It had taken him that long to quadruple the small bankroll he'd been able to scrape together, which had evaporated on one foolhardy wager. He'd have to trust that his luck would improve, for he'd have to make more reckless and impulsive wagers to make up for the lack of time.

Or he could give this man precisely what he wanted, which would be little hardship if he truly admitted it to himself, and rest easier knowing his sister could be happily married.

"Terms," John croaked out. He cleared his throat but couldn't clear his embarrassment. Of course he was insane even considering this offer. It was illegal, for one, acting on such desire considered immoral. John knew this sort of thing happened, of course it did, but that it happened with such insouciance was mildly shocking. No matter that John had more than once allowed his mind to wander in his self-pleasure (also a sin, but a lesser one rarely avoided) over bodies taut with muscle and scars instead of soft and curvaceous. What happened in his mind was between him and God. To actually succumb to illicit temptations…

"So you accept my offer? I am delighted." John could feel the slow phrasing of the word "delighted" crawl all over his skin. John wanted to see if the touch of that voice alone could make him reach the peak of pleasure. Insane, he was definitely going insane.

"Not until I hear your terms for such an assignation."

"Ah, negotiation. Not my particular forte, but I will endeavor to compensate." Finally, he sat, leaning back in the chair and pushing back from the desk so he could cross his long legs. "I would have your undivided attentions for a six-month."

John gasped.

"Six months? But that…"

"Oh, do not worry yourself so, John. I will likely tire of you long before and release you from your obligation. But I do believe my compensation is more than generous for such a small window of time."

John said nothing, feeling the heat creep up his face. So he was to be a mistress then, for lack of a better word, a kept man.

"My sister's wedding is in a month. What would keep me from abandoning our agreement once the danger was over?"

"Watson, I thought so much better of you. I would have suspected your honor would hold you to our agreement. The arrangement is mutually beneficial. Your extorter will cease to be a bother. I may be in a position to recommend your services as a private physician to several wealthy clients. And we will both experience pleasure behind closed doors. But if I must threaten, you have already granted me access to enough of your secrets."

"What if we are found out? If the extorter, or subsequently the public, discovers the particulars of our relationship? My reputation and occupation would be destroyed by such a scandal."

"He could catch us _in flagrante delicto_ and it would be nothing but his word against ours. Simply take care not to provide written proof and show caution in front of witnesses. My servants are well-compensated and will not tattle."

"One month."

"A single month, John? I doubt that you will tire of me by that point."

John wanted to snort at the overconfident statement, but he couldn't. He was too busy imagining the sordid acts in which this man might prove his self-vaunted skill.

"One month. I will attend my sister's wedding as a free man." John held himself steadily to his words. Thirty days, he could take down his own walls and explore the desires he kept so tightly hidden. He couldn't imagine living with the subterfuge for longer than that, the guilt, the shame. The end had to be foreseeable, when he could get back to his own life, to his plans for the future.

"Very well. But we will begin immediately." The man rose and circled the desk like a beast tormenting his prey.

"Now?" John jolted against the upright back of his chair as feline grace swiftly narrowed the space between them.

He leaned over John, his hands resting on the arms of the chair, his breath whispering against John's lips. "Now," he said in a low voice that made John's body thrum. "A kiss, to seal our bargain."

It was a bargain with a devil in a well-tailored suit, one who kissed like his lips were made for nothing else. Well, maybe something else. John couldn't help but open his mouth to the man, allow him to stroke his tongue along the sensitive underside of his upper lip. Just a quick taste, and that wicked mouth pulled back.

"Be my lover, John Watson." And that voice, that thick, smoky voice. Why, oh why, did it affect him so? Hadn't he heard a multitude of deep voices in his life? Why did this one make his thigh muscles clench, make his stomach jump, make his heart beat harder until there was nothing but the whoosh of his blood and that bewitching voice in his ear?

"Yes, God, yes."

And those lips met his again and again, pulling back, tasting, pressing forth again until John's mind was nothing but a fog of desperate need. He moaned against those lips as slim fingers stroked the side of his neck, dipping under his cravat just behind his ear. Holding back his response hadn't even occurred to John; he initiated deeper contact with his tongue, flicking it over the full lower lip.

When the tall man stood again, smug and self-satisfied, John felt utterly bereft. Despite the vainglorious attitude, John wanted to yank the man down again, push more than his lips against him.

"Go home, Dr. Watson. Pack your belongings, leave word with your landlady. I require you in my townhouse tomorrow afternoon."

"I shall be residing with you?" Had that been implied in the terms of their agreement?

"It will add credence to the premise that I have employed you as my personal physician. The privacy of my home will aid in protecting your valued reputation, as well as our absolute discretion when in the public eye. Also, I will require you to be available at a moment's notice. I do not wish to trek to your little room south of the Thames every time I desire your body. And, trust me, Doctor Watson, I will desire your body, again and again."

One long-fingered hand was still touching him, stroking John's chest through his waistcoat under the lapel of his coat. One fingertip found the sleeve edge of the waistcoat and John felt it with only the thin linen of his shirt between them. He tamped down the impulse to strip here and now just to feel those deliberate fingertips all over his body.

"You haven't even told me your name." Had John been so entranced he'd never realized the man hadn't introduced himself until this very moment? Apparently. The response was a highly gratified grin.

"Sherlock Holmes, and the address is 221B Baker Street."


	3. Chapter 3

**Mycroft's Two Cents**

Sherlock lounged in the chair facing Mycroft's desk with the indifference of a recalcitrant student facing down a loathed headmaster.

"Brother, have you lost your mind?" There was no need to question how Mycroft had found out about Sherlock's little deal with John Watson. He had spies everywhere that reported directly to him at all hours of the day and night.

"Hardly, Mycroft. I simply arranged to get what I wanted."

Mycroft Holmes' thin lips tightened until they were nearly nonexistent.

"You're going to track down a criminal with your newest illicit lover. What happens when that extorter decides to turn his money-grubbing eye towards you?"

"Hardly a sound business practice for an extorter to choose me as a target. It doesn't matters to me if people talk; they do little else."

"You may care when you're thrown into prison for your indiscreet and indecent behavior."

Sherlock scoffed, knowing Mycroft dangled enough nobles by their purse-strings to ensure Sherlock would never see time in prison no matter what he did.

"And you wonder why I worry constantly." The man looked sadly down at the little empty plate still perched on the edge of his desk from tea.

"Biscuits will only serve to pad your backside, Mycroft," Sherlock lashed out impertinently.

"You're no better than the malefactor for whom you're searching, extorting intimacies from the victim," Mycroft shot back.

The bright side to this conversation was that after Sherlock stormed out, Mycroft was free to ring for a servant to bring another slice of cake.


	4. Chapter 4

**Baker Street**

John stepped down from the carriage carefully. He was healing well, regaining most of the strength in his leg, but it still sometimes weakened unpredictably. His shoulder wound had healed better, despite the infection, but John attributed that to the time spent in sickbed. He was certain that with regular walks, he would continue to improve.

He swung the door knocker after assuring himself this was the right address given him. A young man opened the door, affecting a staid and proper aspect.

"Doctor John Watson for Mr. Sherlock Holmes." John offered his card forward. The young man received it and nodded to someone just inside. Another footman emerged to lift his trunk down. John was ushered inside.

"Yes, sir, of course. Mr. Holmes told us to expect you. We will bring your belongings upstairs. You may take tea in the downstairs sitting room, if you wish, or follow Alfred upstairs to take a rest."

"I believe I will have tea." Tea was good, tea was calming, tea was every single day. It was the last vestige of normal in John's life. Even at war, there was tea (though its authenticity was often questionable).

"Very good, sir." The footman showed John into the sitting room, where he made himself comfortable. He wondered when Sherlock would make his appearance, whether he was even at home. While he waited, he had far too much time to examine his own choices and behavior. What was he doing here, preparing to play lover for some stranger for the promise of money? What guarantee, besides the promise of an unfamiliar man, did he have that he'd receive the money he needed? And even if he found himself able to pay, he would still be trusting that the faceless, nameless criminal would do as he promised and turn over the incriminating letters.

John tried to calm his thoughts, reasoning with himself. He had Mr. Holmes' IOU in his pocket, a luxurious roof over his head for the next few weeks, and the freedom to explore the most sinfully titillating appetites this man inspired. His situation was little more precarious than it had been the day before when he'd struggled to win steadily against the odds. Maybe for once, the odds were in his favor.

He ought to enjoy it, for what did he have to return to after the month was up? A mouldy room with a snippy landlady who constantly harped on the fact that John returned to his room quite late at night? He couldn't return to the estate house as it was let for the year. His sister Harriet had been living with her godmother since their father's death and would do so until the wedding but their mother's friend had expected John to take his own lodgings after his recovery. Soon, Harriet would marry and be safely away on her honeymoon trip, and he would have only the most distant family and tenuous connections and few of either in London.

John listed the good that could, that _would, _come of this. Harriet had a welcoming home until the wedding; John would have the money by the extorter's deadline and ensure his sister's happy marriage. John would find a job more easily as another month of rest and recuperation would surely benefit his limp and could begin to consider his own future. He may even meet someone in true need of a personal physician through Mr. Holmes, or at least be able to search for a position at a hospital. All this for a spending a month of his life with Sherlock Holmes. A month may go by quite easily, if he could quiet his conscience and assuage his shame. And surely Holmes would not need him every moment of the day; there would be plenty of time for him to make inquiries of acquaintances and colleagues.

John was hopelessly optimistic about their future intimate relations; their kisses in the office of the Diogenes Club made his blood run hot in simple remembrance. John hadn't quite placed the man at first, but he'd finally recalled seeing him at Gentleman Jackson's Saloon, stripped to his linen shirt, lean and rangy with a roguish air. John had smiled at him; perhaps the first spark between them was already there. If he hadn't already been apprised of the blackmail, he might have considered that Sherlock Holmes had masterminded the whole plan just to trap John into his bed. Of course, in the way of novels, a few flirtatious winks and honeyed words would be too simple for a brilliant and jaded protagonist. He would have to play an elaborate game to win his conquests.

If he had, John mused, he was flattered in a twisted way. It would be a lot of trouble to go through to seduce a retired army surgeon who hobbled around London on a cane. He may have succumbed to a simple flirtation if his pride hadn't overruled his loins.

John read too many novels during his convalescence.

The tea arrived, but Sherlock Holmes did not. The footman acting as butler bade him to feel free to use the library as he pleased, and John spent a pleasant afternoon being astounded by the vast collection of sciences and philosophies. Dinner was served informally, but there was still no sign of the man himself.

After dinner, the servant offered John a bath, and he was properly ensnared by what awaited him. The tub was ridiculously luxurious and large enough to recline in. The rising steam was scented with something subtle and masculine, spicy and foreign and was hot enough to soften his whiskers. John washed and relaxed in the water until his fingers and toes wrinkled. To John's amazement, when he was finished, the water drained away through pipes installed in the townhouse walls.

He'd never felt so pampered before. But as soon as the word fluttered into John's head, he stopped enjoying it so much. Of course he was being pampered. He was essentially a rich man's mistress, being tempted and seduced by luxury and wealth, only to ease the master's way into his bed. The realistic side of John wanted to keep enjoying it; at least Sherlock Holmes was interested enough to make the effort rather than just demanding John submit.

The footman helped John into a silk robe once he'd dried off and showed him into the adjoining bedroom. It was elegant and pristine in appearance, but somehow cold and impersonal. John wondered if it was Sherlock's or if it was a guest room. Surely such a fine bath-room would be adjoined to the master's bedroom; however, there were no mementos, no trinkets. He explored a bit. A tall wardrobe did contain clothing, neatly pressed and folded shirts and waistcoats, with drawers of various neck cloths and smallclothes. The desk near the window had paper and ink set out for use, but all the little drawers and cubbies were locked. Still, John did not feel entirely confident that Sherlock Holmes actually slept here. He moved to the bed, piled high with down pillows and what had to be the most expensive sheets he'd ever lain upon.

Most people found they couldn't sleep in the face of anxiety. But John had been to war, had needed to sleep whenever and wherever he could. All the terror for his life was nothing when faced with sheer exhaustion. As it was, he only had uncertainty for what might happen that night, or the next, or the twenty-eight after that. That uncertainty, coupled with his stress and worry for his sister could be boxed up and shoved underneath this magnificent bed fit for the King. John Watson threw his robe over the end of the bed, huddled under the covers and fell straight to sleep.


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N: Here be smut!** If you don't want to read it, don't. The rest of y'all, enjoy! It's going to get steamy in here!

**"I'm not done with you."**

John woke to lamplight and the scratching of pen on paper. He jerked his upper half up awkwardly from the bed to stare at the intruder. No, not an intruder. Sherlock Holmes. The man was sitting at the desk in a thick, quilted robe, shiny like satin but likely lined with silk against that posh skin. It was dark blue, appearing almost black in the lamp and firelight, or perhaps it was so black it was nearly blue. Either way, it made Holmes' pale skin glow.

"Ah, so you're finally awake."

"What time is it?"

"Half-two."

"When did you get home?"

"Twelve." Which meant if he had been at the Diogenes Club, he left quite early. Many nights the club was finally escorting the last patrons outside as the sun rose; on occasion, it played host to revelries that took days to dissipate.

"Why didn't you wake me?"

"I did not believe it to be a wise move to startle a wounded soldier in an unfamiliar bed."

Holmes was correct, John supposed, as he still did occasionally have nightmares. He now kept no weapon within reach of the bed deliberately because he'd done so for years.

Holmes fell quiet after his response and continued to write, the nib scratching the paper almost continuously save for the brief second he dipped it into the ink. John's heart had begun racing when he thought Holmes (ought he call him Sherlock? Lovers would surely use each other's Christian names) might join him in bed forthwith, but as the lapsed time increased, John began to feel almost… disappointed.

_Well, if Sherlock wasn't coming to bed on his own, he would just have to invite him._ Perhaps it was the nap that invigorated John, or perhaps it was the dream of gray eyes and sharply-drawn lips. He wanted those kisses from the previous day. He wanted more, even if it was an engraved invitation to perdition.

With a playful quirk of his lips, John pushed down the covers to his thighs. Sherlock's head didn't even flick in his direction. John plumped a pillow under his head, reclining comfortably, but upright enough to still be able to view the man across the room. Then he started trailing his fingers along his belly. He'd love the feel of Sherlock's fingers there more, but the light tickle of his own fingers was enough for now. He stroked his other hand over his chest, tweaking a nipple and teasing it into rigidity. John imagined Sherlock's mouth there, with John's fingers combing through his dark, curly hair as the man nipped and sucked.

John smiled in Sherlock's direction, though the man still wasn't watching unless he had the all-seeing eyes of God. John let the hand on his belly trail lower, tracing the line where thigh joined hip. He raised one knee and scratched lightly at the sensitive flesh of his inner thigh. He combed his fingers through the dark blond hair around his cock and balls, carefully avoiding them while enjoying the exploratory touch.

It didn't take much thought, seeing Sherlock's damp curls, to begin to imagine Sherlock in that luxurious bathtub, or climbing in after him. He could slide his hands over that slick, wet skin, lick away the water droplets, feel the steam rise from the tub and the conversely cool drips from Sherlock's hair on his chest.

The hum he gave when he allowed his hand to grip his hardening flesh made Sherlock finally lift his head from his work and turn towards the bed. If John was any judge at all, the man was instantly entranced. Glittering eyes followed John's hand as he stroked himself lazily and without rhythm.

"What are you..?"

John smirked.

"Are you trying to seduce me, Dr. Watson?" Sherlock growled, pushing back his chair roughly and prowling towards the bed. His robe was unfastened. The shadows in the room were deep, and only a peek of alabaster flesh appeared as Sherlock moved towards him. John couldn't move his eyes away. He suddenly knew what it was like to be prey: heart pounding, mouth dry, breath caught. He'd been to bed with people before, women, but why did this singular man make him feel so stalked, so _caught_? How did Sherlock so suddenly make John feel like the about-to-be-ravished innocent when John had set out to seduce _him_?

"Depends. Is it working?" John couldn't believe he'd managed to make the cheeky retort.

Sherlock was taller than John, and in fine form. When he leaned over John, he utterly dominated John's senses.

"I would have left the club much sooner had I realized you so highly anticipated our encounter that you would ensconce yourself naked in my bed." Sherlock gave John the most devilishly pleased smile. John flushed, his hand falling away from his erection. Sherlock's eyes fell to it and one hand moved as if he thought to touch it, but changed his mind.

"This is the room to which I was shown," John stuttered. "If I'm disturbing your work, I can leave."

"You are precisely where you are meant to be, John."

The intimacy of being called by his first name by Sherlock Holmes was unbearably arousing and his cock twitched. "Oh," Sherlock said, as if he noticed and was pleased.

Sherlock shed his robe at the side of the bed, let it slip off his shoulders and fall to the floor without the least twinge of shame or nervousness. His hands moved aside the coverlet and sheets more fully. John followed the movement up to his arms where the muscles flexed lightly under his skin, to wide, defined shoulders that arched over a well-formed chest. Sherlock may have been narrow and sinewy, but his state of undress showed off the toned muscle that roped over his long bones.

Sherlock's right knee, and then the other, popped into John's vision as he crawled onto the bed. John's eyes bounced from firm thighs to tight stomach, to dark and shadowed curls centered between them. He swallowed, dragging his eyes away.

Sherlock's eyes tripped down John's body in return.

"John," he breathed, making John's body break out in goosebumps. Even his nipples hardened at the sound. Sherlock's eyes were drawn to them, particularly the left where a tendril from John's scar dragged low. "John." Those sharply defined lips lowered to John's chest, mapping the edges of the scar with the narrow point of his tongue. John's fingers reflexively buried themselves in Sherlock's damp hair, tightening when his tongue swirled around the tight nipple.

John felt more sensitive than he'd ever been, as if every nerve ending attuned itself solely to Sherlock's touch. When Sherlock's hands started to drift over his body, examining every inch, memorizing every texture, John could only sigh as he discovered how pleasurable a calloused fingertip could feel stroking the tender skin of his inner elbow.

"You surprised me, John." Sherlock peered up at John's face, eyes soft and half-lidded for once. "So few people ever do. I expected to have to tempt you, convince you, lure you into my bed."

"I am inexperienced with men, but I am neither ignorant nor innocent, Sherlock. It could be important to know that about me."

"I will not forget, John Watson."

"Good."

John suddenly blushed. Sherlock noticed and his lips rose in a smirk.

"Blushing, after all that? What naughty thoughts have crossed your mind, John?"

"I want you to kiss me… Sherlock." The name was added on almost as an afterthought, as if John were tasting the word on his tongue and found it quite savory.

"Oh, yes." Sherlock shifted so he was mouth-to-mouth with John, chest-to-chest, and nearly hip-to-hip, though Sherlock was slightly longer in the waist. It hardly mattered that they didn't exactly correspond, though, once their lips met. Breathy, heart-racing kisses left John grasping for a handhold; he found the nape of Sherlock's neck, the springy curls tangling around his fingers. His other hand wrapped around Sherlock's back to pull him closer. His most secure grip, though, was the leg wrapped around Sherlock's flank; Sherlock's hips wedged between John's thighs and they fitted together with perfect intimacy.

The kisses made John dizzy with lust, tongues dueling and then stroking gently. Sherlock would pull back only to lay chaste kisses on John's mouth, then moments later, demand entrance. It tugged him much further down when Sherlock sucked lightly on the tip of his tongue.

"Touch me, John," Sherlock whispered against his lips. John's hands obeyed, stroking that pale, perfect back from shoulders to waist, and lower, cupping and pulling that plush arse. Sherlock's cock had only been stirring to life when he crawled onto the bed, but he was now firm and interested and pressed along John's length.

Sherlock stroked a hand along John's thigh, the one he'd lifted around Sherlock's hip, then dug his fingers into the softness of his arse as he pushed his hips tighter into the cradle of John's. A stuttered moan came from John's mouth beneath his. _Yes, again_, and that thought came simultaneously from both of them. Sherlock did it again, even though the heat and friction would quickly become too much.

John whimpered when he pulled away, eyes lust-blown and blinking slowly as he watched Sherlock sat on the edge of the bed and opened the top drawer of a small bedside table. He pulled out a small bottle of oil, which turned out to have a silky feel and considerable viscosity, and poured a little into his hand. John watched with a twinge of jealousy as the man wrapped the wet hand around his prick and began to stroke, spreading the oil over the whole length.

And his cock was impressive to look at. It was of a length commensurate with Sherlock's height, and a pleasing width. The foreskin had already moved down to reveal the head. John shifted to get a better view, licking his lips as Sherlock's hand slid up and down the shaft.

"Another time for your mouth, John, though I do want it so desperately. Lie on your side, facing away."

John did as he was told, though with a rod of tension against his spine.

"Don't worry, John," Sherlock rumbled as he pressed up against John's back. Of course he noticed the tension. "I don't intend to penetrate you tonight. That is for a time when we are more comfortable together, or it will not be pleasant for either of us."

The reassuring voice, in Sherlock's particular deep tone, served to relax John a bit. He only twitched a little in surprise when Sherlock's slick hand pressed between his thighs, rubbing the oil into the crevice between and up along his perineum. John submitted to the intimate massage, holding his thighs just slightly apart, a bit surprised at how pleasurable Sherlock's fingers were, sweeping silkily over the tight pucker and forward almost to the base of his bollocks and back.

Sherlock teased a little, circling the tight hole, dipping into it just slightly and back around again. The finger moved forward again, finding a rather unlikely spot and testing different levels of pressure. Sherlock watched John quite closely, kissing his ribs as his breathing quickened, steadily increasing the pressure until John gasped.

"John?"

John had his face turned into the mattress, fingers clenched in the sheet.

"God, do that again."

Sherlock did, watching avidly as John's cock hitched upward and seeped several drops of fluid. John's hand moved from the bedsheets to flutter in the vicinity of his cock, clearly wanting to stroke himself but unsure if Sherlock would approve.

"Don't touch. Mine," Sherlock breathed into John's neck as he plastered himself against John's damp back. His cock nudged against John's arse, prodding blindly for a moment before Sherlock found the right angle and slid into the crevice he'd so thoroughly oiled. A few experimental thrusts found the optimal movement.

"Sherlock, please. Touch me."

A true downfall of this position was that Sherlock couldn't clearly see John's face. Still, he could easily reach around and wrap his hand around John's cock, slicking it with residual oil; and the sound of John's moan when he did so was by no means muffled. Keeping his hips rocking at a steady but indolent pace meant he could spend the time to tease John, alternating firm movements along his shaft with deliberate circles around the sensitive glans or exploratory fondling of John's scrotum. Sherlock particularly enjoyed the latter when he thrust forward and could feel the head of his own cock just _there._

He also had easy and plentiful access to John's neck, and he set about to mark him; each bite and suck made John arch his neck and groan, sometimes Sherlock's name, sometimes just a wordless keening of pleasure. They both drew it out as long as they could.

It wasn't nearly long enough, in Sherlock's mind, before his hips began to drive forth at a tempo of which he was not consciously in control, and John's hands were clenched white-knuckled in the sheets to keep him from spilling before Sherlock was ready to allow it. They rocked together faster, John's hips moving forward to thrust his cock into Sherlock's tight fist, thigh and arse muscles clenching as he did so to squeeze Sherlock's prick with a blinding amount of bliss.

John spilled first, his seed erupting onto the bed below and coating Sherlock's fingers with new slickness. Sherlock had not yet released him when he reached his apex as well. Sherlock's spend trickled down John's thigh, smearing between them as Sherlock continued to slide in the crevice until he could no longer tolerate the hyper-sensitization. He panted against John's neck, gratified to feel the other man slump against him rather than pull away.

Sherlock wanted to catalog the taste of John's sweat, compare the drops in the small of his back to the ones on his temple. He wanted to taste the semen that dripped from him. He placated himself by pressing back against John's backside once his spent cock had softened and running his hand over John's stomach and chest. John didn't complain that Sherlock was basically painting him with seed and oil.

"Sherlock, that was extraordinary," he finally breathed, shifting a bit until Sherlock let him go and John flopped on his back. He was finally in a position where Sherlock could kiss him again, so he did. John responded lazily, eyes closed even when Sherlock pulled back to observe him. Sherlock couldn't help but smile at the utterly satisfied expression on John's face. He kissed John's jaw so as to not disturb the smile, and then forced himself to rise and get a cloth and some water. John would be uncomfortable if their seed was allowed to dry on his skin until morning.

John allowed Sherlock to wash him, though now that the acute passion was exhausted, a touch of embarrassment returned. He obligingly parted his legs and let Sherlock wipe his most intimate areas, but he blushed as he exposed himself. When Sherlock was done, John shifted to a clean and dry portion of the bed and Sherlock tucked the bedding around him.

"Aren't you sleeping?" John blinked slowly at Sherlock.

"In a few minutes. Rest."

John dozed for a few minutes, waking to find that Sherlock was back at his desk.

"I can sleep elsewhere so I don't disturb your work," he offered again. Surely Sherlock didn't intend for them to share a bedroom; there must be another tucked away in this three-story townhouse.

"No, I'm not done with you yet."

John had to fight back a smile, residual from the rush of climax, surely. He lay back down, eyes watching Sherlock's hair twitch over the collar of his robe as he wrote, dipped his pen, wrote more. John wrapped himself in the scent of sex and Sherlock and let himself doze back off until Sherlock wanted him again.


	6. Chapter 6

** Lestrade and the Suicide**

John woke alone in the morning. The solitude was a bit of a relief. After how utterly intimate he'd been with the enthralling and enigmatic Sherlock Holmes, he feared the difficulty of appearing detached and professional in public – or even at breakfast. He washed and dressed and tried not to think of the night before in too much detail.

Still, his cheeks showed a faint tinge of pink when he was shown to the room where Holmes sat indolent in a chair with a cup of tea and a newspaper.

"Good morning," John said, cursing to himself when his face flamed hotter. He needed to get his reaction under control. John cleared his throat.

Sherlock's eyes finally flickered up from his paper. "Watson," he said coolly before returning to the accounts of things happening in London.

_See, John, Sherlock can comport himself like a proper gentleman; you can do the same._

"Have you plans for the day, Holmes?" John asked politely as he filled a plate from the buffet.

"No. The city is insisting on being insufferably dull at the moment." Sherlock flung away the paper in his hand and reached for another. One of the footmen retrieved the paper from the carpet, neatly refolded it, and handed it to John upon the doctor's gesture.

"Have you eaten?" John asked, realizing as he seated himself that there was no plate in front of Holmes and there was an inordinate amount of food on the buffet for two men, especially if one was not eating.

"Doctor Watson, may I remind you that your guise as my personal physician does not actually require you to act in that capacity."

The scathing tone of Sherlock's voice did much to tamp down the lingering flush in John's cheeks. He found it much easier to focus on breakfast and his paper. Still, John wasn't about to let a whole meal go by in silence. It took less than ten minutes for him to speak up again.

"I wonder what happened," John said, pointing to a short article in the newspaper. "I only met Captain Howell a few times, but he seemed like a good man."

"Hmm?" Sherlock barely looked up from the crime section of the paper.

"It says here that The Honorable Sarah Blackwell ended her engagement to Captain Thomas Howell. I wonder what happened."

Sherlock rustled his paper, turning the page and refolding it to hold in one hand as he sipped his tea. "Likely Miss Blackwell found out about Howell's predilection for a certain male opera singer."

"What? How do you know that?" John was startled. While he shared only a mild acquaintance with Captain Howell, having treated him for an arm fractured by a bullet, he'd never known the man to mention anyone but the girl he had waiting for him back home. Sherlock merely raised an eyebrow in reply and returned to his paper.

"He and I have run into each other once or twice."

John cleared his throat, took a sip of tea, and cleared his throat again. "I see."

Their breakfast descended into another bit of awkward silence until it was broken by a knock at the front door. Sherlock's ears perked up and he set aside his paper, gulped the last of his tea. He bounced up and gestured to John.

"Come along, Watson! Our presence is required at the scene of a crime."

"A crime? Holmes, what?"

"Don't be slow, John. I occasionally consult for those that pass for police in this city. They've come to me with a case."

"How can you tell that from a knock at the door?"

"Donovan always knocks the same way, five times, holding the door knocker instead of simply letting it clack once or twice. Do hurry, John."

John descended the staircase only to see Sherlock and an unknown man talking in the foyer.

"And who is this?" Donovan drawled, clearly delighted to be an observer to some immoral facet of Holmes' life. John was incredibly glad that Sherlock's man had dressed him immaculately before breakfast this morning and that he had a starched, buttoned-up façade to show the constable. He was also glad that Sherlock had conceived of a realistic story to relate as to their cohabitation, though John wondered why people might believe Sherlock would be in need of a doctor 'round the clock.

"This is Doctor Watson, my personal physician. He will be accompanying me today."

"Lestrade said nothing about you dragging along your physician to the crime scene."

"Nevertheless, I require Dr. Watson by my side and Lestrade will surely allow it."

John was quick to don his greatcoat and followed the two men to the hackney cab outside. The ride progressed in silence as neither Sherlock nor the man he'd named Donovan seemed inclined to small talk and when John asked about the nature of the crime, Sherlock responded tersely.

"I prefer to know as little about the scene as possible before viewing it, so as to not defile my observations with presuppositions."

When they emerged from the cab less than two miles away, Donovan pulled John aside as Sherlock swept through the open door of the boarding house and up the stairs.

"Whatever you're doing with that man, I recommend you run fast and far away. Sherlock Holmes brings no one anything but trouble. He'll destroy you the second he doesn't get his way and never feel one iota of guilt about it."

"Pardon me," John said coldly. He jerked his sleeve from the hand of the constable. Perhaps he felt some certain loyalty to Sherlock, whether the man deserved it or not. He had seen fit to take John's problems as his own, even if it was because it served his own selfish needs. And if John was later tossed out and forgotten, well, it was nothing less than what he expected anyway.

None of the officers stopped him from mounting the stairs and from there it was easy to find Sherlock.

"Why have you called me in for a simple suicide, Lestrade? You do not need my confirmation when the gun is in the man's dominant hand and he has left a note, several, in fact, to family and friends. Even you can see, Lestrade, how deliberately he prepared for his death. Howell rose early, or, more likely, stayed up through the night writing his letters, shaved and dressed to present the most respectable façade to those that might find him. So melodramatic, that, suicide at dawn, all too common among so-called men of honor. If you bumbling idiots have not noticed, this man is Captain Thomas Howell, who so recently became estranged from his long-standing fiancée. He would have been distraught over the circumstance and thus took his own life. Obvious."

John made it to the door just as Sherlock approached it to leave, fuming.

"Yes, he did leave letters, Holmes. One of them, in fact, was addressed to you."

The gray-haired man's exasperated voice stopped Sherlock cold.

"Give them to me."

John looked over at the body, lying across the bed in full dress uniform, blood staining the wall and the bedclothes. It was no shock to John, not after all those years at war, but the senseless loss of life still saddened him. The gunshot was at close range, through the temple. The captain's hand was still wrapped around the butt of the gun, finger against the trigger. It was, as Sherlock had said, the man's dominant hand since the other arm had been significantly damaged by his injury and John remembered Howell being relieved that it was his weak arm anyhow.

John was afraid of something like this happening to his sister Harriet. She'd been so distraught when she'd come to him with the blackmail note. John had been surprised anyone had ever found out about Harriet's first lover, but apparently her highly incriminating letters from the man had gone undestroyed. Some enterprising servant must have come across them and was now using them, or had sold them for quick coin to someone who was willing to wait for and force a much larger sum. John had promised to help. In fact, he'd written her a letter before leaving his small rooms for Baker Street explaining he'd be able to produce the full amount of money when the time came for the exchange and necessarily indicating his address change.

Sherlock, meanwhile, had broken the seal on the letter addressed to himself and skimmed the contents quickly. He handed the letter to John, who, confused, took it. Sherlock gave him a significant look and broke the seal on the letter to Miss Blackwell.

"Oi, you can't read the lady's letter without her permission."

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"Just proceeding at the height of efficiency, Lestrade. We could trek to Mayfair, wait while the lady weeps over the death of her captain, wait for her to read it through bleary eyes and sniffles, and then beg permission which she will surely give, or we could simply read it now and pass it along later as necessity dictates."

John read through the letter he'd been handed. The captain wrote to Holmes that he had been found out by an extorter and certain letters had been stolen from the dressing room of his opera singer lover. He'd refused to pay the extorter out of a mix of honor and fury, and the letters had been promptly delivered to his affianced. He did not beg forgiveness for his actions, only requested that Sherlock track down and stop the culprit before these terrible events repeated.

_I know you will not be sympathetic to my plight, Holmes, but I rely on our most tenuous bond to request your assistance. I never knew the man who threatened me. Others must know, for I do believe I am not his first target. For their sakes, as well as the sake of my dear Sarah, who will be heartbroken even as she evicted me from her future, I implore you to stop this man._

Sherlock barked at the constables to vacate the room so he could search for more evidence. Even Lestrade seemed baffled by this instruction.

"Evidence of what, Holmes? I thought you agreed this was a suicide."

"Hush, Lestrade. Watson, you stay. Everyone else, get out so I can think!"

Lestrade rolled his eyes but did as he as he was instructed. He was familiar with the ways and methods of Sherlock Holmes.

As soon as the room cleared, Sherlock began to spin in a slow circle, his eyes raking over everything. John looked around, too, curious and eager to look away from the sad sight of the corpse cooling on the bed.

"If you were going to hide a letter from an extorter, where would you put it?" Sherlock asked. John opened his mouth to reply, but Sherlock cut him off. "No, not you. Your concepts of pride and honor do not match those of Captain Howell. You are willing to pay; he was not. You sought a solution to your problem; Howell knew me and my reputation beforehand, yet foolishly did not seek my help until after his death. Idiot. He has made this much more difficult. Where would a vainglorious wastrel hide a threatening letter?"

"I was going to say, he probably burned it."

"Of course he would!" Sherlock exclaimed as if he'd thought of it himself. "He would have been angry and embarrassed and tossed it directly into the fire." Sherlock crouched immediately by the small fireplace in the room. "Shame his landlady was worth more than most. His grate has been cleaned recently and likely several times since he received his letter. We may as well go, Watson. How do you feel about the opera?"

"The opera? It's still morning."

"All the better to interrogate the performers when they are not performing, John."

Sherlock brushed past Lestrade and dashed down the stairs. Lestrade shouted after him, but the man paid no attention, having hailed a passing hack by the time John had politely moved through the constables in the narrow hall and down the stairs after Holmes. Lestrade followed John out onto the street and demanded Sherlock speak to him.

After a deep, put-upon sigh, Sherlock acquiesced. "Lestrade, it was suicide. Your men can remove the body. Be sure to go through the man's belongings and let me know if you find a threatening letter addressed to him, though I doubt you will. The man was being extorted. I'm on the case!"

With that, Sherlock swung himself into the carriage after John and pounded on the roof to get the driver moving. When they were a few blocks away, John fancied he finally couldn't hear Lestrade swearing anymore.

"What did you do with _your _letter, Watson?"

"My letter? Oh, it's tucked away in one of my medical texts under _A_ for aneurysm."

Sherlock laughed. "You are much less idiotic than Howell, at least, to have saved valuable evidence that may prove useful in tracking down the culprit."

"You think that the same man is behind both threats?"

"I would be a fool to discount any possibility at the moment, but that is one of my theories, yes."

The remainder of their trip into the depths of London was spent with Sherlock alternating between a manic sort of silence and sharp questions regarding the letter in John's possession.

Suddenly, he said, "We're nearly there," and he directed the carriage to the mouth of a narrow street. He stepped down and tossed a coin to the driver. John emerged immediately behind.


	7. Chapter 7

**Sherlock and the Case**

"Where are we, Holmes?" John asked, looking around after descending to the street. There certainly wasn't any indication of an opera house or any sort of theater in this neighborhood. The wider cross-street was lined with small shops and secondhand dealers, with a cobbler on the corner. The people moving around were simply dressed but not caked with the filth of poverty. It was a working class area, proprietors of small shops, perhaps, and respectable.

"Nowhere, yet. It wouldn't do to be dropped directly at the door of a molly house, now would it?"

John tugged the brim of his topper a bit lower over his forehead and followed Sherlock down the narrow street, through an alley lined with garbage and prowled by strays, and up to the back entrance of an unassuming building that John would never have guessed housed much more than a lowly pub and a few rooms for tenants upstairs. John ducked in after Sherlock who spoke to a man sweeping the floor. A coin flashed between them and Sherlock was given a nod and a room number. Sherlock found the stairs and took the steps two at a time to the third floor. John trailed after only to see a door open a crack in response to Sherlock's incessant knocking.

"What do you want?" Little more than a dark eye ringed with thick black lashes appeared between door and jamb.

"You know a Captain Thomas Howell?"

"I know a lot of men," came the disaffected reply.

"He committed suicide this morning."

The only indication that the resident of the room heard this pronouncement was the squeak of the hinges as the door swung further open. The young man disappeared from the crack and Sherlock took this as invitation to enter.

The room was dingy and dim, the single window covered over with a haze of gauzy fabric. Shimmering costume pieces decorated every flat surface, including the floor, though the majority hung along the nearest wall.

The young man suddenly looked particularly boyish as he wrapped his robe tighter around his waist and perched in a chair with his bare feet tucked underneath him. The shape of his face had a certain sweet charm, though his dull eyes spoke volumes. John sat where the boy gestured, but Sherlock stood, pacing the room and no doubt collecting every bit of the detritus with his eyes.

"When did the captain's letters to you go missing?" Sherlock opened with the toss of a shilling into the lap of the captain's lover.

If the young man was surprised at the stranger's blunt question, he did not show it.

"About six weeks ago. I didn't tell Tom, but he found out a few weeks later. He thought I was behind the threats, at first."

"Did Howell injure you when he found out?" John thought the young man's face was showing the faint discoloration of much-faded bruising, but perhaps it was just remnants of powder from a performance.

"Irrelevant," Sherlock announced, still taking note of the reaction, which was better than an answer any day. "Had you any other gentleman callers who may have stolen the letters from your room?"

"No, Tom paid for exclusivity. He said he loved me and could not bear for me to be touched by any other."

"Did you love him?"

Sherlock raised an eyebrow at John when he interrupted again, but let the question stand.

The boy exchanged glances with Sherlock then answered John with half a shrug. "He was handsome and wasn't usually rough with me."

"What did you think of his upcoming marriage?" John asked, curious if the boy had been jealous of his lover's fiancée.

"Can't say as it made any difference to me," the boy replied, giving John a look that said he thought he was ridiculously naïve. "Wasn't planning on becoming his lady wife myself."

John flushed. What was he thinking? Of course the boy knew precisely where his place in Howell's life was, and that would likely be unchanged by the man's marriage.

"Who else besides Howell had access to your room?" Sherlock moved to the door to examine the lock. The rim lock was fastened to the door on the inside, but the keeper on the jamb was loose enough that a bit of wiggling and some force might encourage the release of the bolt.

"Anyone who had an interest, I suppose."

"Hmm. Did anyone who worked here leave around the same time?"

"Rhetta's been gone about a month. She did a shite job on the costumes, but the audience didn't seem to mind when the stitches burst open on occasion. One night she told Steeds to shove the eight pence he owed her up his arse and sauntered out."

"Do you know where I can find her?"

"She sometimes stayed in the garret above, but mostly with a man when she could."

"Which man?"

"Any man. The only place she's likely to turn up is at Three Sheep."

John saw Sherlock calculating in his head. It was clearly far too early to visit a pub.

"We'll go straight on to speak with Miss Blackwell. Lestrade will have informed her by now. Hopefully she will be able to provide some information on how the letters were delivered into her possession."

Sherlock gestured to John, who stood.

"I'm sorry for your loss…" John realized he had no idea of the boy's name. He nodded his head as if dismissing himself then followed Sherlock out the door and back down to the street.

"I'm sorry for interrupting, Holmes. I make a horrible investigator," he confessed as Sherlock raised his hand for a hack.

"It's fine, Watson. Your questions were the questions anyone would ask. That you asked them did not impede me from asking the correct questions."

"Thanks for that," was John's dry response.

Sherlock grinned. "We now know a number of useful things, Watson. It is likely that this Rhetta stole the letters and sold them to someone else. She is an unlikely candidate for something as sophisticated as blackmail, but she would have been easy to approach for a small amount of burglary. A few coins in exchange for a few letters, so very simple. If we've any luck, she won't have been paid quite enough to completely forget her employer."

John nodded, but he wasn't thinking ahead to the next step of the investigation as Sherlock was. He was wondering how fate had entangled him with this inexplicable man, and for what possible reason.

"You ought to be more excited, Watson! If we can hunt the villain down through the clues Howell has left for us, we may be able to solve your little problem as well. That seems most efficient." Sherlock rubbed his hands together. "Oh, I do love it when the most random occurrences tie together in such a satisfying way."

John ignored Sherlock's glee and remained silent the rest of the distance to the Blackwells' door in Mayfair. The knocker had been removed from the door, signifying that the occupants were not "at home," though with several constables milling about, someone was clearly in residence. Family friends and gossips alike were being turned away at the door. The news of the captain's suicide had apparently travelled faster than thoroughbreds.


	8. Chapter 8

**Meeting the Sister**

It took surprisingly little convincing for the attendant constables to admit Sherlock and his personal physician to the house. A somber male servant took their coats and showed them into the large public parlor with instructions to wait. They did, and a few moments later Miss Blackwell entered the room supported by her mother, Lady Edenmere, and, surprisingly, one Miss Harriet Watson.

The siblings started at the sight of each other. "Brother, whatever brings you here?"

"Harriet," John said, equally flummoxed. "I gather you have not received the letter I posted to our aunt's yesterday." He fidgeted with the head of the cane in his hand.

"No, I've been visiting Miss Blackwell since the day before yesterday – first the broken engagement and now this tragedy. She's utterly in shock."

"I'm sorry to say that I did not know you had made the acquaintance of Miss Blackwell." John and his sister had never been especially close. He'd left for school when she was quite young and his subsequent trekking through France and the Peninsula had rendered him occasionally unreachable. Harriet had attended a school for young ladies and, upon her debut, she'd relocated from their father's estate to her godmother's in London. The blackmail threats had brought them the closest they'd ever been.

Harriet drew the red-eyed woman forward and hastily made introductions.

"Lady Edenmere, Miss Blackwell, this is my brother Doctor John Watson. Miss Blackwell and I met before Father passed away and she often kept me company while I was in mourning."

"Miss Blackwell, I thank you for being such a good friend to my sister, and I hope my friend, Mr. Holmes, and I can do you a good turn in repayment." John opened his mouth to introduce Sherlock to the ladies, but Sherlock had been tapping his foot through all the platitudes and formalities.

Sherlock drew forth the captain's letter from his pocket and handed it to Miss Blackwell.

"This was found among other letters on the captain's desk."

"It's been opened."

"Yes, I read it."

"But why?"

"To read it, obviously. There might be a clue to be gathered from its contents."

The young woman's mother regarded Sherlock's lack of propriety with the most extreme disdain, but Miss Blackwell herself simply nodded and took the letter and Harriet's arm and sat on a nearby divan.

"And who, precisely, are you, sir?" Lady Edenmere demanded.

"Sherlock Holmes. I occasionally assist Mr. Lestrade of Bow Street when unusual or curious crimes materialize."

"I have not been made aware that the suicide of Captain Howell is anything but irrefutable."

"That is indeed the case, but what I have been asked to investigate is the instance of blackmail."

Lady Edenmere's spine turned to iron. "I do believe it is best to lay Captain Howell's ignominy in his grave with the rest of him, Mr. Holmes. It will not benefit anyone to drag such behavior into full view of the public."

"I disagree, Lady Edenmere. The person or persons responsible for the captain's downfall may be focusing now on others."

"The captain is responsible for his own disgrace, Mr. Holmes. Now, I do believe that will be all." Sherlock pointedly ignored the woman's blatant dismissal and approached Miss Blackwell and John's sister. _John's sister! Here! How incredible!_

"Miss Blackwell." Sherlock knelt in front of her, the most compassionate expression in his repertoire plastered on his face. "I understand that a few days ago you received some letters your affianced had written to another lover."

Miss Blackwell did not answer immediately. Harriet produced a handkerchief and, tossing the unfolded letter to the small tea table by her side, Miss Blackwell dabbed her eyes with it.

"Yes. How do you know of it?"

"Captain Howell wrote me of it. It was rather thoughtless of him to request my assistance once the damage had been done. If he'd called upon our tenuous connection weeks ago, he might have spared himself a bullet to his brain."

Harriet and Lady Edenmere gasped, but Miss Blackwell did not seem shocked. Perhaps the events of the last few days had cured her of the capacity.

"I'm sure I prefer the torment of the truth, Mr. Holmes, rather than the state of blissful ignorance in which I previously resided."

"Then you are a rare woman, Miss Blackwell, for many prosper by secrets kept and dalliances hidden."

"To answer your question, I received a small packet with the morning post on Monday."

"Did it arrive at the house with the post, or was it perhaps delivered separately?"

"I'm not certain. You could ask Goodman, the butler. He may know. Mother, if you would?"

Lady Edenmere was still frowning vigorously, but she obeyed her daughter's wish and summoned their butler to attend them.

"Do you still have the parcel? Perhaps there might be some postmark or other indication from whence it came."

"No. I showed one of the letters to Thomas… Captain Howell, and he demanded the rest and burned them."

"Oh! Sarah, that is not entirely true!" Harriet exclaimed. "Remember, they were wrapped up with brown paper and twine, like a package from the shops, and you did not give him that."

"Yes, you're quite right, Harriet. I had forgotten. Do be a dear and fetch those if you know where they ended up." Miss Blackwell leaned back against the cushions, though her mother might have glared at her for slouching.

"John, would you come with me? I fear spies all around me with such nefarious goings on."

"Of course, Harriet."

Sherlock nodded at John, who took it as approval. He might benefit from a word alone with his sister, who was closer to this situation that she ought to be.

"What did I miss in your letter, John?" Harriet hissed as she led her brother up the stairs.

"I've accepted a position as Mr. Holmes' personal physician in exchange for his assistance with our most distressing circumstance."

"Surely he cannot have forwarded such a sum of money for your medical services, John! You'd be indebted to him for life." Harriet whirled about, staring John down from the top of the staircase.

"Do not mind the details, Harriet," John advised, knowing full well that the exorbitant amount of money they needed was at least several years' salary to even the most prestigious of physicians. "I have managed to gather together monies from other sources as well. We shall be in a position to pay." Their positions leveled and John followed a distressed Harriet down an elegant hall to her friend's private rooms.

"I do wish I felt as easy about this as you, John, but Sarah's situation has me all aflutter. A lady is allowed to break an engagement, though the events that followed will surely cause whispers, but if Clarence breaks off his engagement to me, I will be utterly ruined by the shame."

"I am aware, Harriet. I am doing absolutely everything in my power to ensure that eventuality does not come into being, do you understand? Absolutely everything."

John's intensity startled Harriet, and perhaps she even understood what John meant and felt a modicum of appreciation for it, though it might be the first time for such a feeling between them.

Harriet entered a large sitting room and approached a writing desk near the window. She opened drawer after drawer as John watched from the doorway.

John cleared his throat, not in an apology but certainly in an acknowledgement of the awkwardness between them. "Say, do you recall any of the servants in your godmother's house being dismissed recently, or being otherwise unhappy with their situation?"

"Why?"

"Someone had to be in the house to abscond with your letters. Where had you hidden them?"

"There were in one of the compartments of my trunk. My maid knew not to disturb them."

"But she knew they were there, as might any servant in any household you ever visited. By God, Harriet, that was careless! Why did you never burn them?"

"Because Clarence never writes me letters, John, nor utters honeyed words. He is utterly dull when it comes to matters of wooing. You should have heard his proposal, so stilted, as if he'd forgotten the lines to a badly-written play. It is nice to sometimes remember that someone felt such eloquent passion for me, John. Here." She thrust a crumpled bit of brown paper at him and stalked past him out the door.

"Harriet, wait, you did not answer my question."

"No, John, no one has been dismissed and as far as I know, no one has expressed intense dissatisfaction."

"Thank you, Harriet," John said, though he thought his sister's disposition distinctly unhelpful.

They returned to the sitting room, where Sherlock had discerned the state of the servants from Lady Edenmere and his observations of the maid that had come and gone with tea. John delivered the parcel's wrapping, which Sherlock examined only briefly before tucking it into one of his great pockets. They made a surprisingly polite escape from the household and headed back to Baker Street to more thoroughly examine the evidence and await the night when they could search for the elusive Rhetta.


	9. Chapter 9

**Undercover**

Sherlock spent much of the afternoon examining the brown paper and the twine which had bound it. He discerned both the likely cost of both ("Really, John, there is a surprising difference between two-penny twine and three-penny twine") and the multitude of shops that might frequently sell items of that quality. The postmark from Hampstead Village, he ignored almost to the end.

John listened most attentively to Sherlock's monologue, sometimes asking questions. When he asked about the postmarks, Sherlock remarked on the uselessness of such things.

"A personage who truly wanted to be anonymous might spend a day driving from one location to another simply to falsify the postmark. Thus it may be a bluff. Or the person might have stupidly thought no one would notice the postmark and sent it from their own locality. Thirdly, the clever criminal may have considered the first, thought the second, and there we end with a double bluff. Given this, one must nearly disregard the origin stamp unless the location is far afield, or the style or condition of the stamp is questionable.

"For instance, a letter with a dated postmark arrives from Paris. The details one would examine would be the wear on the paper from the length of journey, the date on both the stamp and the letter, the color of the ink, and whether the ink of the stamp is laid atop the ink of the letter. Then one must take into account the ships arriving at port and the current political situation to determine the authenticity of its speed of arrival."

"But what does that have to do with this letter from Hampstead?"

"Well, it indicates several things, all lies. Several letters bound together in paper would have been sent as a parcel, likely special delivery, but the postmarks indicate it was franked as a simple letter. The charge indicated also defies what we know of the contents, as several bound letters would have tallied up a much higher cost, and there are no penciled indications of mileage. The appearance of standard mail was forged to obscure the identity of the man who delivered the blackmailer's diabolical dispatch."

"Amazing." John could not control his astonished articulation. "You gathered all of this from the markings on a piece of paper?"

"Hardly, John. The evidence is all there, yes, but I simply spoke to the butler while you were upstairs with your sister. He told me the regular postman had been replaced that day, and while he thought nothing of it at the time, in light of recent events, he'd become suspicious."

"So does this mean we track down this irregular postman?"

"Only if we run out of other options. We shall simply keep an eye out in our investigation for a man with a scar along his jaw, as the butler described, for if he does turn up, we shall know we are on the right trail."

The afternoon turned to evening, and they supped together before slipping back out into the night to discover the location of the tavern known as Three Sheep. It wasn't terribly far from the small theater where they'd met with Howell's lover, and only one passerby had to be questioned before they received the proper direction.

The pub wasn't as squalid as John imagined, but he was glad Sherlock had a set of clothing that was of lower quality and simpler style, and had requested John wear the items he owned closest to being tossed in the rag bin. Sherlock handed him one of his collection of old hats as well, before scrubbing his hair with his fingertips to frizz his curls a bit and flattening them with a battered wool felt hat.

"Even the incongruity of a fine muslin shirt beneath a tattered coat, or the shine of a new boot under deliberate mud splashes could invalidate a disguise, John," Sherlock lectured. Thus they had dressed very carefully and now they took facing seats at a long table lined with benches and held a pint of ale each.

Sherlock took to telling tall tales that had the table laughing uproariously, John included. In the back of his mind, he wondered where the stories came from, but it was something he could ask later. John recounted a story or two from his time in the army, carefully not mentioning he'd been a surgeon and certainly not that he'd been expensively schooled as a physician.

Few women entered the building, and those that did proved not to be Rhetta. They didn't dare ask about her, since anyone informing the woman she was being searched for might scare her away for good. As much as possible, then, when they were not regaling the populace with ridiculous tales, they listened to the conversations around them and behaved congenially.

It wasn't until they were walking to a more trafficked street much later that night in the attempt to hail a hack that John allowed himself to speak openly to Sherlock.

"So are we going to return every night until she shows up? Or will that seem awfully suspicious? We are lucky the regulars chose to accept our company tonight."

"We shall try again tomorrow night," was all Sherlock said in reply. He flung his arm up before John even realized a hack was driving past, though upon ascending, the driver demanded pay in advance if he was to traverse all the way to Marylebone at this time of night. Sherlock's coin appeased the man.

Once they had climbed into the back and the carriage was underway, Sherlock leaned over to whisper in John's ear.

"It's dark. No one will see." The whisper was accompanied by a hand curling around John's thigh. The gaslights were far between in this part of the city, and their light certainly did not penetrate a moving carriage.

John's heart leapt and he couldn't speak for a moment. Sherlock had been incredibly proper since breakfast, without a shade of the tantalizing, magnetic personality that had propositioned and seduced John. John had almost managed to forget Sherlock's effect on his body, so different had he behaved all day.

"If you're quiet, no one will hear," that silky voice continued. The hand crept upwards.

"Sher…"

"Shhhh, no talking," Sherlock breathed against John's lips. His hand deftly made its way into the falls of John's trousers and found his cock already beginning to stiffen. John grabbed Sherlock's forearm, but did nothing to force the man's hand away from his exposed prick.

"Mhm, yes," Sherlock murmured before capturing John's lips in his. John made tiny, quickly arrested noises through his nose as Sherlock's lips and tongue shattered his ability and desire to protest.

Gentle teasing became firm strokes with a saliva-slick fist and John sprawled his body in the seat, his back against Sherlock's chest, to give Sherlock an easier angle. From here, Sherlock could mouth and lick John's neck while his free hand covered John's mouth in anticipation of uncontrolled vocalizations.

"I love feeling your cries of pleasure stifled against my palm." Sherlock's voice hummed straight into John's ear, blocking out the sounds of life on London streets, the carriage wheels and hooves on the cobbles. "I believe I shall collect them and put them in my pocket to keep for later."

"I'm looking forward to watching your face as you spend. That should have been the first item on my list of 'What to do with John Watson.' I know exactly how I'll make that happen, as well. I'll have you on my bed, on your back, legs spread wide. One hand will be just as it is now, stroking your beautiful cock until it spills, but my other hand won't be covering your mouth. Oh, no, I'll want to hear every sound you make as you beg for more. My other hand, my long fingers, will be thrusting inside you as I prepare you to take me."

John jerked and groaned near the end of this erotic soliloquy, spurting his seed somewhere into the darkness of the cab.

"So good, so perfect, John." The hand slid from his mouth, allowing him to pant quietly.

John relaxed against Sherlock a moment, not realizing how much he'd tensed up as he anticipated release. The man's hard cock pressed against John's backside.

"Do you want me to…?"

"Not yet. I have other plans for that. You may sit up and clean yourself off." They rearranged themselves and John was glad of the dark for Sherlock could not see him blush. He felt so unworldly with this man, which was completely ridiculous. He hadn't blushed this much since he was a callow youth of sixteen. John took the proffered handkerchief and cleaned himself off enough to tuck away his spent member. He had no idea where his semen had shot, but a quick pat-down reassured him that it mostly hadn't landed on his clothing. John tucked the handkerchief into his jacket pocket.

The drive to Baker Street was long enough that John felt almost composed when they arrived. They climbed from the carriage, John grabbing his hat from the floor where it had been lost at some early point. Sherlock guided them around to Baker Street's servants' entrance, where they startled one of the footmen taking tea in the kitchen. He didn't look overly surprised to see his employer in worn clothes and coming in the back, just nodded and asked if they needed anything before he extinguished the lamps for the night.

The footman was discreet as promised in that he said and thought nothing about Sherlock tugging John once again into the master suite, and certainly heard nothing as Sherlock gave John copious instruction on the uses of his mouth.


	10. Chapter 10

**Rhetta**

John woke alone the next morning as well. When he rang the bell, the young man who appeared to attend him verified that Holmes was not in the house. He had gone out at some point before dawn and it was not known when he was to return. John penned a brief letter to his sister and directed it to the Blackwell house in Mayfair. He also wrote a brief note to Harriet's godmother to inform the woman of his change in residence.

After that, however, John felt uncertain as to how to spend his time. He explored the house a little, feeling a bit intrusive, but finally settled himself in the cluttered little library to find something to read. When he spied the twine and brown paper where Holmes had abandoned it the night before, he recalled the letter which Harriet had given him for safekeeping. He enquired as to where his belongings had been stowed and retrieved the book from his trunk.

The letter had simply been a letter, and not a parcel, with the direction written on the outside of the folded paper. The postmark was also from the village of Hampstead, but when John compared the two marks, they were decidedly dissimilar. Perhaps his letter had an official postmark while Sherlock had deduced that the package had not.

John tried to apply the methods of examination that Holmes had described the day prior. He examined the paper, the folds, the handwriting, but could draw no useful conclusions at all. He flicked the page aside and sighed.

"Of course, you see, but do not observe, John."

Holmes' voice from the door of the room startled him.

"Oh, you've returned."

"Do try and keep from stating the obvious, John. Now, the letter your dear Harriet received was postmarked Hampstead, perhaps even legitimately. Why would our blackmailer forge one and not the other? And why Hampstead?"

"How did you know from where Harriet's letter was postmarked?" If John hadn't been so startled, he would have been suspicious. Surely the man could not see such a thing from across the room, though that was more likely than him reading John's mind. Of course, if he could read John's mind, all he would gather of John's thoughts would be that the doorway framed Sherlock perfectly, that his tousled curls and pink cheeks ought to be from more than the wind, and that John restrained himself from rising and offering him a kiss hello. Well, restrained most of himself.

"You do recall telling me precisely where you'd hidden the letter, John; do not be dull. After you fell asleep, I examined the letter thoroughly. Quite titillating, the passages our extortionist chose to prove his claim, were they not?"

John flushed and cleared his throat.

"Did you not sleep at all, then?" Perhaps the change in subject would give John the moment he needed… no, not at all. Sherlock quirked his lip in amusement. Just that little movement gave John a hot rush of electricity up his spine.

"I rested a little after our exertions, but sleeping is dreadfully dull. I prefer to abstain until it becomes absolutely necessary. And have I not told you that despite our pretense, you have no obligation to actually administer to my health? I do find it tedious to repeat myself," Sherlock added when John opened his mouth to speak.

John closed his mouth, having nothing else to say. Finally, he thought of something. "Tea?"

Their second foray to the Three Sheep proved successful, with Rhetta appearing on the lap of a man with the bulk of a warehouse worker who bounced her on his knee to the tempo of a silly rhyme. Then he dropped a coin into her cleavage and she whisked away with a flounce to fill her cup.

Sherlock had been watching her since he'd heard the name on the worker's lips. Rhetta noticed him watching her and apparently thought he was a finer prospect than her warehouse worker, or at least a new one. She soon sidled up to Sherlock where he stood at the bar and fluttered her eyelashes. Sherlock responded positively, even though her hair was knotted and chaotic, her manner far too forward, and her half-exposed breasts marked by the fingers of at least two other men. He soon had her engaged in flirtation and she laughed with false gaiety, or perhaps she was just drunk. She smelled a bit too much like stale gin.

John tried not to watch, since he didn't want to see her pawing at Sherlock and he didn't want anyone else to wonder why he was glaring at the seemingly happy pair of them. He tossed his hat onto a table and sat down to glower into his beer as if he were simply having a bad day. The other customers left him alone.

When Sherlock left with her, John ordered another drink and let himself be drawn into a conversation with someone who needed to vent about his troubles with the wife. John lied glibly to commiserate. Around his third beer, Sherlock came back in and nudged John in the backside with his knee.

"The wife's squawking for you, John, she's like to wake the whole street."

John's drinking companion sent him off with a sympathetic grimace. Sherlock slung an arm over John's shoulder in support and led him back down the road.

"I hope you got what we came for."

"To tell the truth, it almost wasn't worth it." John felt a bit of stupid relief at the posh, biting tone. "I'd like a bath when we arrive home. How about you, John? Would you like a bath?" Those last questions were spoken with a different tone entirely.

The bath, though large, wasn't truly big enough for two. When Sherlock knelt between John's legs to face him, John had to slide down a bit and lift his legs up around Sherlock's hips to make room for the tall, lanky man. He felt a bit on display, but Sherlock approved of this positioning, giving John a playful smirk that made John laugh and splash a little water over his pale chest.

Sherlock leaned forward, gripping the edge of the tub next to John's head, and drew the sponge in slow, dripping strokes over his skin. John arched his neck as Sherlock smoothed it under his chin and down his throat. He kept the vague smile on his face, but relaxed into the gentle pleasure of the touch. John's half-hard cock stiffened a little more under the water, but Sherlock teasingly refrained from direct contact.

John hummed his enjoyment as Sherlock dripped water down John's chest, then puffed air over the wet nipples to entice them to tighten. When they did, the man couldn't help but dive forward and nip at the wet little bud, drinking in both John and the drops of water. When he pulled back, John ran his wet fingers through Sherlock's damp curls and lightly down Sherlock's neck.

Sherlock grasped John's roving hand and, kissing the fingertips, proceeded to run the sponge over and under his arm. John graciously lifted the other for the same treatment. Sherlock continued the motion over John's vividly pink scar reverentially.

"Does it still hurt?"

John took the sponge from Sherlock and placed his bare fingers on the scar.

"It aches sometimes," John answered, guiding Sherlock's fingers in a lazy sketch around the wound. "The scar on my thigh is more prone to painful spasms because the muscle wasn't sewn back together properly."

Sherlock let his hand drift down to John's thigh. That scar of which John spoke was hidden by the dimness of the room and the depth of the water. He could feel it though, a thick ridge across otherwise firm muscle and lightly haired skin. Sherlock dipped his other hand below the water line to mirror the exploratory touch on John's uninjured leg.

Sherlock found that John enjoyed his touch nearly everywhere, but he still tensed when his fingers crept towards the tight ring of his arsehole. And that was a shame, because Sherlock was a bit fixated on breaching that forbidden orifice. But all Sherlock had to do was slip a finger into the crease of John's muscular buttocks and John would tense from head to toe.

"I'm not ready, Sherlock." John squirmed into a more upright position and tried to move his legs so he wasn't quite so splayed in front of Sherlock.

"If I gave you my word that I would use nothing bigger than a finger for the next seventy-two hours, would you let me touch you there, John?" Sherlock kept his voice low and breathy, something that had proven to turn John's eyes dark with desire. "I need for you to trust me, John. I won't hurt you. I won't force you. But you have to be willing to let me show you how good it can feel. If you don't like it, I promise I'll stop."

Not waiting for a reply, Sherlock ducked his head down and captured John's breath in a series of playful, humid kisses. After a few teasing swipes of Sherlock's tongue, John's hand cupped the back of Sherlock's neck and pulled the man closer. The kisses intensified until the bathwater began to feel chill in comparison to their inflamed bodies. Sherlock drew back and wondered how much latitude John would allow him in this state.

"I've a brilliant idea."

And that was how John ended up sprawled face down on Sherlock's bed, naked as the day he was born and gleaming with sweet almond oil. Sherlock started the rubdown with the scar on John's shoulder, then moved slowly outward and down. By the time he leaned back to admire his handiwork, all that delicious bare skin glowing softly in the lamplight, John was relaxed and pliant beneath him.

Or he was from Sherlock's perspective. No telling what was hiding between John and the sheets.

Sherlock pressed his lips down John's spine, counting the vertebrae with his tongue. His hands slid over shoulder blades, down the ribcage, and swept back up the pert rise of arse. John was too relaxed to protest or tense. Sherlock tried to tamp down his elation and devoted all his amorous attention to the firm globes in his hands.

Or mouth. He couldn't quite resist taking a chunk of flesh between his teeth and biting down every so lightly. John's breathing stuttered, but he did not object. Sherlock pulled back and shifted, parting John's legs so he could kneel between them. Sherlock was utterly fascinated with his view. His hands skimmed over the flesh, thumbs just brushing into the crevice. After a few moments, John even shifted his hips, clearly feeling the need to reposition his erection beneath him.

"You are so magnificent like this, spread out before me. This is what I wanted the first moment I saw you, John, your bare back curving down at your waist, flaring out again into such delightful buttocks. I wanted to touch you like this, feel your body under my fingers and tongue. I wanted to squeeze you and open you and know every inch of your body."

Sherlock's long fingers stroked over John's arse and down the backs of his thighs. Each caress edged closer to sensitive areas until the very tip of Sherlock's thumb brushed against that tight, hidden pucker. John did not tense, at least not in displeasure. Sherlock continued his gentle exploration, listening carefully to the tempo of John's breaths fluctuate.

"Sherlock," John rasped a few minutes later, "that is most certainly not a finger."

John did not move to make a physical objection, though, and Sherlock laughed, warm breath huffing against tender skin.

"But it is not bigger than a finger, as I promised."

John may have uttered something about contracts with the devil, but Sherlock ignored his half-hearted grousing and instead set about to make John groan in a more appreciative manner.

It wasn't until the next morning that Sherlock finally got around to telling John what he'd learned from Rhetta.

"I casually mentioned painting this fine house in Mayfair and all the sordid goings on between the fine lady wife and several recognizable gentlemen while the husband was at his club. Rhetta asked if I could provide any proof, because if I could, she might know someone who would pay generously for such information. I told her as I was going back tomorrow, I might be able to rustle up some correspondence, since the trysts have to be carefully orchestrated to avoid notice. It wasn't like any of the servants would talk, since either the master or the mistress would fire them without references, either for the knowing or the telling.

"She told me to be at a certain pub at a certain time and I'd know the man when I saw him. The very picture of a man who buys and sells secrets, she said. It was clear that our Rhetta enjoyed the cloak and dagger element."

"Sherlock, if she told you the name of the pub and the time the man will be there, how could it have almost not been worth it?"

"She felt she needed to get terribly close to whisper these secrets to me, John." Sherlock shuddered. "I prefer more straightforward, financial-based transactions when I deal in information. Much quicker and more reliable when my informant wants something I'm willing to give."

"So do we approach the man at the pub, then?" John asked, moving the conversation along so he wouldn't have to examine why he felt such internal clamoring over the memory of that woman hanging all over Sherlock.

"I think not. It is possible he would recognize you through his dealings with your sister. And if I approach him, it will make my face known to him as well, a circumstance I'd rather hold in reserve. I suggest we approach the pub early, take note of the arrivals and departures, perhaps have a drink in a dark corner to observe any clandestine meetings. If we can identify our man, we follow as best we can to discover his identity and location."

**A/N: Finding this picture was simply dumb luck today and inspired me to finish this chapter. It in no way inspired the bathtub scene, nor has anything to do with the Regency era, but I thought I'd share because, John and Sherlock nekkid in the tub! :) art/Sherlock-BBC-Friday-i-m-in-love-290237695**


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